The Hound From The North Part 36

That evening as Robb Chillingwood rode back to Ainsley he thought of many things, but chiefly he reviewed the details of that last disastrous journey when he and Grey had traversed the snow-fields of Alaska together.

CHAPTER XVII

THE LAST OF LONELY RANCH

There are moments which come in all lives when calm reflection is powerless to influence the individual acts; when calmness, even in the most phlegmatic natures, is impossible; when a tide of impulse sweeps us on, giving us not even so much as a breathless, momentary pause in which to consider the result of our headlong career. We blunder on against every jagged obstacle, lacerated and bleeding, jolting cruelly from point to point, whither our pa.s.sions irresistibly drive us. It is a blind, reckless journey, from which there is no escape when the tide sets in. We see our goal ahead, and we fondly believe that because it is ahead we must come to it. We do not consider the awful road we travel, nor the gradual exhaustion which is overtaking us. We do not realize that we must fall by the wayside for lack of strength, nor even, if our strength be sufficient to carry us on to the end, do we ask ourselves, shall we be able to draw aside out of the raging torrent when our goal is reached? or shall we be swept on to the yawning Beyond where, for evermore, we must continue to struggle hopelessly to return? Once give pa.s.sion unchecked sway, and who can say what the end will be?

It was at such a moment in her life at which Prudence had arrived. Her mind was set upon an object which absorbed all her faculties, all her brain, all her feelings. Had she been able to pause, even for one moment, reason must have a.s.serted itself and she would have understood the folly of what she was doing. But that moment was denied her. All the latent pa.s.sions of a strong nature had been let loose and she was swept on by their irresistible tide. She believed that she was the appointed avenger of the man she had once loved, and that this duty unfulfilled would be a crime, the stain of which nothing could wipe out. Iredale must be confronted, challenged, and----

And so she came to Lonely Ranch on her self-imposed errand of justice.

The man she sought was not in the house when she came. The valley seemed to be devoid of life as she rode up. But the solitude was almost instantly broken by the appearance of Chintz from the region of the barn. She dispatched him in search of his master and pa.s.sed into the bachelor sitting-room to await his coming.

She was restless and her nerves were strung to a great tension. Her eyes still shone with that peculiar light which ever seemed to look out of her brother's. There was no yielding in the set of her mouth.

Her resolve disfigured the sweetness which usually characterized her beautiful features.

She stood before the window, looking out upon the shadow-bathed valley. She saw before her the dark wall of foliage which rose to the heights of the Front Hill. Not a living soul was about, only was there a rising wind which disturbed the unbroken forest of pines. She turned abruptly from the view as though she could not bear the solitude which was thus made so apparent. She crossed over to where the bookcase stood against the wall, and glanced in through the glazed doors. But she comprehended nothing of what she saw. She was thinking, thinking, and her mind was in a tumult of hysterical fancies. And she was listening too; listening for a sound--any sound other than that which the wind made. Mechanically she came over to the table and leant against it in an att.i.tude of abstraction. She s.h.i.+vered; she stood up to steady herself and she s.h.i.+vered again. And all the time the frenzied eyes gleamed in their beautiful oval setting, the lips were drawn inwards, and there remained only a sharply-defined line to mark the sweet mouth. Presently her lips parted and she moistened them with her tongue. A fever seemed to be upon her, and mouth and throat were parched.

Suddenly the sound for which she waited came. She darted eagerly to the window and saw Chintz pa.s.s round in the direction of the barn.

Then she saw the burly figure of the man she was awaiting appear in the clearing fronting the house.

George Iredale came along at a robust gait. He was clad in moleskin riding-breeches, much stained with clay, as though he had been digging; a soft s.h.i.+rt, the sleeves of which were rolled up above the elbow; his Stetson hat was adjusted at the correct angle upon his head; and he wore a pair of tan-coloured field boots, much smeared with the signs of toil. He came rapidly towards the house. There was nothing furtive, nothing guilty about this man's bearing; he came readily to meet his visitor, and his appearance was the confident bearing of a man who has little to fear.

She saw him look towards the window where she stood, and his smile of welcome set her nerves tingling with a sensation she failed to understand. Her hand went round to the pocket of her linen riding-skirt and remained there. She heard his step in the hall; she heard him approach and turn the door handle. As he came into the room she faced him.

"Why, Prudence, this is a delightful----" he began. But she interrupted him coldly.

"One moment," she said, and her voice was hoa.r.s.e with the dryness of her throat. "I have not come over for any visit of pleasure, but strictly upon a matter of--of--business. There are some explanations which we both need to make, but more especially you."

"Yes."

Iredale was gazing earnestly into the face before him. He was trying to fathom the meaning of her coldness. For the moment he wondered; then, slowly, he began to understand that Hervey had been at work.

"You got my note," he said, choosing to ignore the result of his observations. "My delay in calling at the farm was unavoidable. I am in the midst of disposing of my ranch. I had not expected that I should have been called upon to do so so soon. I beg that you will forgive me what must seem an unwarrantable delay."

Prudence's nerves were so strung that she felt as though she could strike him for his calm words. Her condition demanded the opposition of pa.s.sion equal to her own. His coolness maddened her. So long had she dwelt upon the accusation Hervey had brought against him that she believed in this man's guilt. The evidence of her own senses had militated against him, and now she steeled herself in an armour of unbelief. But, in spite of herself, the dictates of her heart were struggling hard to find the joints of her armour. Nor were the struggles lessened now that she stood confronting him. His coolness, though maddening to her, was not without effect. The moral influence he wielded was great.

She backed to the table; then she plunged into the subject of her mission without further preamble. Her eyes stared straight into his, and her tones sounded incisively in the stillness of the room.

"I little knew the man whom I was listening to when he offered me his life, nor had I an idea of how near I was to the man who inspired the words which have appeared in the paper--the words which were the last Leslie Grey ever uttered. What must have been your feelings when I told you that I knew their author to be a murderer?" Then, with scathing bitterness: "But your feelings must have long since been dead--dead as the poor creature you so wantonly sent to his reckoning.

The time has come for you to defend yourself; that is, if defence you can offer. No flimsy excuse or extenuation will cover you. Even the Scriptures teach us that the penalty is 'a life for a life.' Yours is the hand that struck Leslie down, and now you must face the consequences of your wanton act."

Iredale's quiet eyes never attempted to avoid the girl's direct gaze, nor did he flinch as the accusation fell from her lips.

Never was he more alert, never more gently disposed towards this half-demented creature than at that moment. He recognized the hand that had been at work, and he laid no blame upon her. His feelings were of sorrow--sorrow for the woman he loved, and sorrow for himself. But his thoughts were chiefly for her. He knew, as she had said, that his time had come.

"So Hervey has been to you to sell the discovery which I rejected at the price he asked. He told you that I was a smuggler; that the announcement in the paper was mine. And did he tell you that I was the murderer of Leslie Grey? Or did your heart prompt you to that conclusion?"

The girl supported herself against the table with one hand, and the other was still in the pocket behind her. Iredale noted these things without moving his eyes from her face.

"Hervey told me the facts and the inevitable proof they bore. Nor was his statement exaggerated. My own reason told me that."

The man sighed. He had hoped that the work had been only of the brother's doings. He had hoped that she had come bearing Hervey's accusation and not her own.

"Go on," he said.

"I know you for what you really are, George Iredale. And now I have come to you to give you the chance of defending yourself. No man must be condemned without a hearing. Neither shall you. The evidence against you is overwhelming; I can see no escape for you. But speak, if you have anything to say in your defence, and I will listen. I charge you with the murder of Leslie Grey."

Just for one brief moment Iredale felt a s.h.i.+ver pa.s.s through his body.

The icy tones of the girl's voice, the seemingly dispa.s.sionate words filled him with a horror unspeakable. Then he pulled himself together.

He was on his defence before the one person in the world from whose condemnation he shrank. He did not answer at once. He wished to make no mistake. When at last he spoke his words came slowly as though he weighed well each syllable before he gave it utterance.

"With one exception all that Hervey has doubtless said of me is true.

I am a smuggler; I inspired that line in the paper; but I am no--murderer. Leslie Grey's life was sacred to me at the time if only for the reason that he was your affianced husband. I loved you at that time as I have loved you for years, and all my thoughts and wishes were for your happiness. It would have made you happy to have married Grey, therefore I wished that you should marry him. I am quite unchanged. I will tell you now what neither you nor Hervey knows, even though it makes my case look blacker. I knew that Grey was on my track. I knew that he had discovered my secret. How he had done so I cannot say. He quarrelled with me, and, in the heat of his anger, told me of his intentions. It was late one night at a card-party at your house, and just before he was so foully murdered. No doubt you, or any right-minded person for that matter, will say that this evidence only clinches the case against me. But, in spite of it, I a.s.sert my innocence. Amongst my many sins the crime Hervey charges me with"--he purposely avoided a.s.sociating the charge with her--"is not numbered.

Can I hope that you will believe me?"

The gentle tones in which the burly man spoke, the earnest fearlessness which looked out from his quiet eyes, gave infinite weight to all he said. Prudence shook her head slowly, but the fire in her eyes was less bright, and the voice of her own heart crying out began to make itself heard in the midst of her chaotic thought.

She tried to stiffen herself for the task she had undertaken, but the result was not all she sought Still, she replied coldly--

"How can I believe with all the black evidence against you? You, in all this region, were the one man interested in Leslie's death. His life meant penitentiary to you; his death meant liberty. Your own words tell me that. How can I believe such a denial as you now make?

Tell me, have you no proof to offer? Account for the day on which Leslie met his death; prove your movements upon that day."

The girl's denial of belief was belied by the eagerness in her voice.

For one brief instant a flash of hope rose in her. She saw a loophole for her lover. She longed to believe him. But the hope died down, leaving her worse distracted for its coming.

For Iredale did not speak, and his face a.s.sumed a look of gloom.

"Ah, you cannot--you cannot," she went on hysterically. "I might have known, I did know." A world of pa.s.sion again leapt into her eyes. Then something of the woman broke through her anger, and a heart-breaking piteousness sounded in her voice. "Oh, why, why did you do this thing?

Why did you stain your hands with such a crime as murder? What would his living have meant to you? At worst the penitentiary. Was it worth it to destroy thus the last chance of your immortal soul? Oh, G.o.d! And to think of it! A murderer!" Then the fierce anger became dominant once more. "But you shall not escape. Your crime shall be expiated as far as human crimes can be expiated. The gallows awaits you, George Iredale, and your story shall be told to the world. You shall hang unless you can give to judge and jury a better denial than you have given to me." She suddenly broke off. A whistling indrawn breath startled the man before her. She gazed round her wildly; she had remembered what she had come for. She had forgotten when she had talked of "judge and jury." Her face a.s.sumed a ghastly hue at the recollection. Her eyes alone still told of the madness that possessed her.

Nor was Iredale without an uneasy feeling at what he saw--that catch of breath; that hunted look as she gazed about the room. Intuition served him in the moment of crisis. What was the meaning? Why was that hand concealed in her dress? There was only one possible answer to such questions, and he read the answer aright.

"Prudence," he said, in his deep musical voice, whilst his keen eyes riveted her attention, "I can prove my innocence of the crime you charge me with. Listen to me patiently, and I will tell you how. Do not let your anger drive you to any rash act which might bring you--lifelong regret."

The girl made a sharp e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n. But she did not attempt to interrupt him.

"I can prove that I was not within three hundred miles of this place on the day of Leslie's death," the man went on. "That I was in a city to the west of here distributing"--bitterly--"my wares. I can prove all this--to you. And I intend that before you leave me to-day you shall be a witness to my innocence, even against all prejudice. But before judge and jury it will be different--very different." He sighed. "There I cannot prove my innocence, for to do so would be to betray my comrades--those who have traded with me and trusted me--and send them to the penal servitude which also awaits me." His eyes had become reflective. He seemed to be talking to himself now rather than to the woman before him. "No, I cannot save myself at such a cost.

Even to escape the gallows I will not play the part of Judas."

The woman made no reply. She stood staring at him with all that was best in her s.h.i.+ning in her eyes. She was trying to follow his every word and to take his meaning, and the one thought which dominated her whole mind was his expressed ability to prove his innocence to her.

He seemed to awake from some melancholy reverie, and again his eyes sought hers.

"Do you wish me to prove my innocence?"